Return of the Three Caballeros
by KrissyKat91
Summary: On his way home from dropping Huey, Dewey and Louie off at the summer camp bus stop, Donald Duck runs into an old friend. Almost literally. (PLEASE READ "GOODBYE" FIRST.) slight edits on first two chapters
1. Prologue: Just Keep Walking

KrissyKat91: I would like to put it out there right now that I only know a handful of very basic words in Spanish, absolutely nothing of Portuguese, and will thus be relying on Google Translate. Yes, I'm well aware of the quality or lack thereof of that website, but it's all I could ever find that will translate full sentences. To any native speakers, please do not get offended if there are any stupid mistakes. If there are, I fully expect you to tell me so I can fix it as quickly as possible.

* * *

Cast

(in order of appearance)

Panchito Pistoles - Carlos Alazraqui

Donald Duck - Tony Anselmo

* * *

Prologue: Just Keep Walking

 _Just keep walking. Just keep walking. Just keep walking._

The words drummed in his head in time with the beat of his heart as the tall bird stumbled down the road.

 _Just keep walking. Just keep walking. Just keep walking._

Glancing down to make sure the document folder was still tucked firmly in the lining of his bolero jacket, he forced a few more steps out of his aching feet.

 _Just keep walking. Just keep walking. Just keep walking._

He'd managed to cross the border into America without getting caught or shot, hitching rides when he could, stowing away on freight trains, mostly walking or flat out running from place to place. All in the hope that the bird he was desperately seeking still lived where he said he did, all to protect the contents of the folder. In it were bank statements, tax forms, deeds and bills of sale, anything and everything he could get his hands on to prove that the _rancho(1)_ and _hacienda(2)_ belonged to him and not that… that… that stupid greedy _gringo(3)!_

 _Just keep walking. Just keep walking. Just keep walking._

Spying a large sign on the side of the road, he slowed his pace, hoping to find out where he was. After several seconds of blank staring, his tired brain finally translated the English words into something he could understand.

 _Welcome to Duckburg._

The rust feathered bird wasn't sure whether to crow in triumph, laugh hysterically, or just cry. After over a month of almost nonstop travel, occasionally backtracking to make sure he hadn't been followed, after weeks of little to no food and sleeping with one eye open if he slept at all, he'd finally reached his destination. All he had to do now was find his friend's house and he could finally rest.

There was just one problem. Now that he'd stopped walking, he couldn't seem to start again. In fact, his legs felt like they were about to—

 ** _Whump._**

—give out.

Face down on the road, black spots dancing at the edges of his vision, the russet bird groaned in mingled frustration and exhaustion. So close. He was _so close_ to his goal! He couldn't stop now!

The roar of an approaching vehicle sounded from somewhere behind him, and he struggled to get up, to move out of the way. It was no use. His whole body felt like a lump of lead.

 _Run over when I am so close to help,_ he thought miserably. _This is the final indignity._

It seemed, however, that fate was going to be kind for once. With the loud shriek of rubber tires on asphalt the car swerved around him and screeched to a stop. Footsteps—the distinct _thwap-thwap-thwap_ of a bird with webbed feet—hurried to his side. A pair of hands grabbed his shoulders and gently, carefully, rolled him onto his back.

"Panchito!"

A familiar pair of light blue eyes stared worriedly into his own.

"Panchito Pistoles! Can you hear me?!"

The Mexican rooster smiled weakly. _"Buenos días, mi amigo(4)."_ And then the black spots multiplied, and he knew no more.

* * *

(1) rancho - exactly what it sounds like. In this case it's a cattle ranch.

(2) hacienda - an estate, or the main house on the estate.

(3) gringo - from what I understand it basically means foreigner, and is only an insult when the context of the sentence means it to be an insult. In this case, yes, it was meant to be an insult. It was the only word I could think of to use without moving into cussing territory, and I don't cuss. Ever.

(4) Buenos días, mi amigo - Good morning, my friend


	2. Ch 1: Let the Games Begin

KrissyKat91: Just cleaning up the chapter a little.

* * *

Cast

(in order of appearance)

Donald Duck - Tony Anselmo

Panchito Pistoles - Carlos Alazraqui

One - James Horan

* * *

Ch. 1: Let the Games Begin

Donald Duck sighed to himself as he guided the 313 down the road. The triplets had been a whole new level of irritating as the start of summer drew near. It had been a relief to drop them off at the bus stop in Mouseton for the Junior Woodchuck summer camp, though he had to admit he'd be pretty lonely without them.

The boys' summer vacation induced insanity aside, things had been pretty quiet in Duckburg for the last month or so. No Uncle Scrooge hauling him off on some life threatening adventure. No Glomgold or Rockerduck going after the old miser's fortune. No Magica de Spell trying to steal his number one dime.

Gladstone had won a cruise and taken Daisy with him—so the headaches triggered by her attempts to get back with him were thankfully absent—and goodness only knew where Fethry was and what featherbrained obsession he had lodged in his skull this week. Even Jones, his nuisance of a neighbor, was keeping to himself.

All was calm on the Duck Avenger front, as well. No robberies or muggings or crimes of any kind had occurred in a little over a week. It was like every crook in the city had randomly gone on vacation. In all honesty, Donald was getting a little bored.

 _It's almost enough,_ he thought with another sigh, _to make me wish something would pop up out of nowhere, right here on the highway, just to give me something to do._

Something appeared in the corner of his eye. He looked up and saw, to his horror, a body in the road.

"I wasn't serious!" he screamed, yanking the steering wheel to the side and swerving around the sprawled out person. As he did, he noticed the huge sombrero the person was wearing.

 _Oh no._

The huge, _familiar_ sombrero.

 _Nonononononono!_

Slamming on the breaks, Donald yanked the shift into park and launched himself out of the car with the hard-won speed and agility of a duck who spent many nights running around in spandex, cape and mask, and years before that being dragged along by his uncle on perilous treasure hunts. Calling on all that speed, the duck almost teleported across the street, skidding to a stop next to the person. Dropping to his knees, he grabbed the other bird and rolled him over.

Brown eyes, glassy with exhaustion, stared up at him uncomprehendingly.

"Panchito!" he half yelled, shaking him a little when the rooster didn't respond. "Panchito Pistoles! Can you hear me?!"

Panchito blinked dazedly, then gave a faint smile. _"Buenos días, mi amigo,"_ he croaked, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped in Donald's grip. Choking back a cry of terror, Donald pressed his fingers into his friend's pulse point, almost collapsing in relief when it thrummed against his fingertips. Shifting around a bit, he lifted the unconscious rooster up and, with some effort, managed to get him into the rumble seat of the 313, then ran back to get the sombrero that had slipped off his head and the plastic folder that had fallen out of his jacket.

Stuffing both of these into the seat next to the rooster, Donald hopped back into the driver's seat, shifted the car into drive, and headed for the only safe place he could think of in his rush to help his friend.

Ducklair Tower.

* * *

"Are you sure he's okay?" Donald asked, holding Panchito's arm still while a pair of mechanized hands deftly inserted an intravenous drip into one of his veins.

A synthetic sigh filled the air. **_"Yes,_** _D.A., I'm_ ** _sure._** _He's exhausted, dehydrated and undernourished, but otherwise healthy. Just as he was the last six times you asked."_

The duck gave an embarrassed chuckle. "Sorry, One. I'm just worried."

 _"Clearly."_ The AI peered carefully at the insensate rooster. _"You're certain it was wise to bring him here? He might awaken and discover your secret identity."_

Donald shrugged. "Panchito's been one of my best friends for years. If I can't trust him, I can't trust anyone. But relax. If he doesn't figure it out on his own, I'm not telling him."

One's gaze flitted between the two birds for a moment. _"…Indeed,"_ he finally responded. _"Though if it's all the same to you, I shall administer a light sedative, just to make certain he stays asleep until you take him home."_

"Careful," Donald advised as he picked up and opened the folder he'd found with the rooster. "I don't know if he has any allergies."

 _"I shall monitor him closely, I assure you."_

"You do that. Alright, Panchito, let's see what's so important you almost killed yourself to get here."

* * *

 _Ay caramba(1),_ Panchito thought hazily as he swam back to consciousness. _My head._

Prying his eyes open, the rooster examined his surroundings. He was tucked into a bed in what seemed to be a typical (if slightly run down) bedroom. There was an empty photo frame on the nightstand next to the bed, and several squares on the walls that showed where more had been. The few photos left were too far away for him to make out.

Lifting his head as much as the pain pulsing through his skull would allow, he saw his sombrero sitting on a small dresser next to a lamp, and his clothes folded neatly on a chair. A glance under the covers showed him he was wearing a plain, ill-fitting white nightshirt.

And yes, it was more than a little embarrassing to know someone had changed his clothes for him.

Slumping back against the pillow, Panchito stared at the ceiling, feeling distinctly like he was forgetting something…

…

…

…

…

 _…THE FOLDER!_

The rooster bolted upright, regretting it immediately as the room spun wildly and his stomach tried to leap out his beak. Hunching forwards, he put his head between his knees until everything settled back down.

Once he was sure he wasn't going to pass out again, he threw the covers aside and _very carefully_ stood up. After a moment and a few deep breaths, he walked to the other side of the room and got dressed.

Cinching his gun belt, he frowned at the empty holsters. He'd been out of bullets since shortly after crossing the border, but that didn't mean he liked the idea of someone taking his pistols without his permission.

Sombrero firmly anchored by his comb, Panchito opened the bedroom door and warily started down the stairs. As he reached the bottom step, a wonderful smell assaulted his nostrils, causing his stomach to give a loud snarl. Blushing beneath his feathers, he followed the smell into a well used kitchen, where he saw—much to his bewilderment—Donald Duck sitting at the kitchen table, cleaning one of his missing pistols with an ease of familiarity he never would have attributed to his either of his best friends.

"Panchito!" Leaping to his feet, Donald darted around the table, skidding to a stop in front of the rooster, hands twitching like he didn't know what to do with them. "I didn't think you'd wake up so soon!"

"…You know how to clean a pistol?" Panchito blurted, giving voice to his confusion.

Donald arched a feathered brow. "As a matter of fact, yes. I'm even a decent shot with one, though I'm better with a shotgun. On a more important topic, how do you feel?"

The rooster's stomach snarled again, and he grinned sheepishly. "Thirsty, hungry enough to eat a horse, and I have the _madre(2)_ of all headaches. How did I get here?"

"I found you on the road just outside of town," the duck replied, motioning him to the table and heading for the pot bubbling merrily on the stove. "And by 'found', I mean I almost ran you over. You've been out for almost twenty-four hours."

"With that much sleep, you would think I would feel better," Panchito grumbled, plopping his tail feathers into the chair and pulling the cleaning kit and disassembled pistol over to finish the job.

"That depends on when the last time you had something to eat was," Donald commented, ladling some kind of stew out of the pot and into a bowl, which he then placed in front of Panchito.

The rooster's hands stilled. "Ah…"

"That's what I thought." He held out a spoon. "So, I had a look through that folder you had with you."

"And you understood it?"

"Sure." A beat. "Okay, no, I had to look up a ton of stuff and use three different online translators, but I got through it. Anyway, you seem to have done pretty well for yourself since the last time I saw you."

 _"Gracias(3),"_ Panchito said, both for the food and the compliment, "but I am afraid my luck has changed for the worst. That is why I am here, _amigo(4)._ I did not know where else to turn." He gulped down a few spoonfuls of stew, then looked back at his friend. "Someone is trying to steal my land."

Donald almost choked on his own stew. "What?! Why?!"

"Black gold, _mi amigo!_ There is an untapped oil field directly underneath my main grazing land, never before discovered! Someone found out about it not long after I did, though I do not know how, and ever since then he has been attempting to strong-arm me into selling my property for far below what I paid for it, never mind what it is actually worth! Lately he has resorted to things like having my cattle stolen and my barn set on fire! He even tried to have Señor Martinez shot! I had to ship him in secret to my _abuelo's(5)_ farm to protect him!" He slumped in his seat. "And the worst part is that I have no way of proving who did it all."

"Do you at least know the guy's name?" the duck asked, looking more than a little alarmed.

"Oh, _sí(6)._ It is a strange one, though. Something like, ah, Rockhead Globgoal?"

This time Donald really did choke on his stew. _"Flintheart Glomgold?!"_

 _"Sí!_ That is the guy!" Panchito faltered. "Do you know him, Donal'?"

"Do I know him?! He's the Second Richest Duck in the World, and Uncle Scrooge's biggest business rival! He's ruthless; there's nothing he won't do to get what he wants!" He fell back a little. "I'll be honest, Panchito, you were lucky to get away alive."

The rooster swallowed hard. "This is… this is too big for just the two of us, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid so, which means one thing."

Panchito tilted his head in question.

"We're gonna need Uncle Scrooge's help."

* * *

(1) I think this is one of those phrases that doesn't actually mean anything. It's just an exclamation.

(2) mother

(3) thank you

(4) friend

(5) grandfather

(6) yes


	3. Ch 2: Scrooge McDuck

KrissyKat91: I didn't mean for this to cross into DuckTales, but GizmoDuck showed up and I couldn't get him to leave. And of course if Giz was there, Darkwing Duck had to at least have a mention. (peeks over wall separating fandoms; quickly ducks to avoid a gas pellet) I don't think he liked the mention I gave him, though.

Expect sporadic updates on everything for the foreseeable future, because I'm only going to have sporadic access to the internet for the foreseeable future.

* * *

Cast

(in order of appearance)

Donald Duck - Tony Anselmo

Panchito Pistoles - Carlos Alazraqui

GizmoDuck/Fenton Crackshell - Hamilton Camp

Scrooge McDuck - Alan Young (he will always be Scrooge McDuck to me)

* * *

Ch. 2: Scrooge McDuck

"Holy _frijoles(1)!"_

Glancing over as he turned into the driveway, Donald grinned at the look on Panchito's face. The first proper look at the McDuck Money Bin tended to stun people; despite dominating the landscape of Duckburg, the huge square building didn't look nearly as massive as it actually was until you were right up on it. The Duck Avenger had caught many a would-be thief because they were too busy gawping to actually break in.

 _"¡Esto es increíble(2)!"_ Leaning forward, the rooster's head swiveled this way and that as he surveyed the area, then he whipped around and stared. "Ah, Donal'—"

"It's okay, Panchito," the duck said, stopping the 313 so the heavily armored figure rolling towards them could catch up. "He works for Uncle Scrooge."

"Halt and identify yourse—Oh!" The armored duck faltered when he got a good look at them. "Sorry about that, Mr. Duck. I didn't recognize you."

"That's alright, GizmoDuck." Donald nodded at the gaping rooster. "This is Panchito Pistoles. Is Uncle Scrooge in? We need to talk to him."

"Of course, of course! The last I saw of him, he was on the ninth floor, yelling at one of the clerks for mislabeling an important document."

Donald sighed. "Wonderful. And here I was hoping to catch him in a _good_ mood."

GizmoDuck laughed. "No such luck, I'm afraid. Well, carry on. Just, uh, watch out for the security system's new mallets. They have steel cores." He grimaced. "I found that out the hard way."

As Donald drove on, leaving GizmoDuck to his patrol, Panchito twisted around to watch him go, then looked at Donald. "Who or what was that?"

Donald couldn't help but laugh at the look on his friend's face. "That was GizmoDuck, my uncle's personal bodyguard and chief-of-security, who also moonlights as a superhero. I'm surprised you didn't recognize him. He's pretty famous. And no," he added, knowing what Panchito was going to ask next, "he's not a robot. He's wearing a suit of armor."

Personally Donald thought the guy tried too hard to act like the stereotypical comic book hero, to the point where his speech and behavior were often laughably over the top. He'd probably find the other duck very annoying if he hadn't proven himself so effective. Still, he often wondered what Gyro Gearloose had been thinking (or drinking, as the case may have been; the inventor came up with his most bizarre ideas when on a coffee binge, and at the time he'd been raving about some kind of Jamaican blend a friend had given him) when he'd designed the GizmoSuit. Who fought crime while riding a unicycle?

…Though if he had to choose between GizmoDuck and that overdressed, egocentric nutcase from St. Canard…

Shaking his head, Donald gunned the engine as the 313 continued to climb Killmotor Hill. He could contemplate the many strange quirks of his fellow superheroes later. Right now he had something far more important to think about: how to convince Uncle Scrooge to help them without being charged an arm and a leg.

* * *

If Panchito had been awed by the outside of the Money bin, it paled in comparison to what he felt when he saw the inside.

The ground floor had been an adventure in itself, and the rooster was glad Donald—who'd clearly run this gauntlet many times—had been there to guide him. Then they'd taken an elevator past the second floor (where Panchito had glimpsed bars of gold and silver and something slightly darker than silver that he hadn't recognized) and the third floor (where he'd goggled at the sheer amount of gems of all shapes and sizes and colors, far more than what he'd seen in the Mines of Ophir in Brazil), bypassed floors four through ten altogether, got off on the eleventh floor and walked down two flights of very steep stairs to the ninth floor, only to learn that the lord and master of the whole place had retreated to his office. On the eleventh floor. Which meant they had to climb all the way back up the stairs. Needless to say, by the time the whole trip was over Panchito had exhausted what stamina he'd managed to recover.

Dropping onto a hard bench to try to catch his breath, the rooster watched Donald pace back and forth, grumbling quietly. Amazingly, the duck didn't seem winded at all.

 _"Caramba, amigo,_ how are you not tired? The first floor and those stairs were awful!"

Donald paused in his pacing, _something_ flashing across his face so fast the rooster couldn't identify it, then he snorted and said, "I've been up and down and left and right and forwards and backwards and sideways and slantways and any other ways you can think of through this building so many times it doesn't faze me anymore. This combined with all the adventures he drags me on has actually kept me in pretty good shape. You ready to go in yet?"

 _"Sí."_ He pushed himself up. "I am looking forward to meeting this uncle of yours."

Donald snorted again. "Right. We'll see what you think after you actually meet him."

* * *

Scrooge McDuck looked up as the door to his office swung open and Donald walked in, followed by a tall rust feathered rooster in an oversized sombrero.

"And just what are ye doing here, nephew?" he asked, secretly glad to ignore the ever growing piles of paperwork on his desk for a few minutes, though he wasn't about to tell the younger duck that.

"Uncle Scrooge, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine."

The rooster stepped forward with a smile. _"Buenas tardes(3), Señor(4)_ McDuck. My name is Romero Miguel Junipero Francisco Quintero-González. But everyone calls me Panchito."

 _Blow me bagpipes! What a name!_ "Pleased t' meet ye. What can I do for ye?"

"Panchito has a problem, Uncle Scrooge," Donald said, "and that problem's name is Flintheart Glomgold."

"'Glomgold'?!" Scrooge jumped to his feet. "Wha' featherbrained scheme is tha' blaggard pullin' this time?"

"He has been trying for the past month to force me to sell my land to him, for far less than I paid for it. He's also been stealing my livestock and vandalizing my barn and _hacienda."_ Panchito grinned in a slightly vicious manner. "However, he did not count on how stubborn we roosters can be, or that I am a crack shot with _mi pistolas(5)."_

Donald coughed something that sounded suspiciously like "trigger happy", looking away innocently when the rooster glared at him.

Arching a brow at the easy camaraderie—how long had his nephew known this guy?—Scrooge squinted at them both. "Why's he after yer land? Wha's so important about it?"

Panchito opened his beak, then closed it again, wincing and rubbing the place on his arm that Donald had just elbowed.

"Before we answer that," Donald said, crossing his arms and leaning forward a little, "do you promise not to try to buy it yourself?"

The old Scot eyed his nephew warily. Ever since breaking things off with Daisy, Donald's stress levels seemed to have dropped significantly, which meant his temper had gone from constantly near-boiling to a steady low simmer. Oh, his fuse was still as short as ever, but some of his triggers seemed to have gotten less sensitive.

Not that this was a bad thing. It just made it harder to anticipate what would set off the explosive rage he'd unfortunately inherited from both parents. Best to ere on the side of caution in this case; Scrooge didn't feel like paying for repairs to his office. _Again._

"Aye," he said slowly, "I promise."

Donald stared hard at him, then nodded to Panchito.

"I struck oil, _Señor_ McDuck. Once the deal with the company I chose goes through and the well is set up, my land will be worth several million American dollars."

* * *

Donald watched as several expressions—surprise and greed and remembrance and fury—flew across his uncle's face in rapid succession. Then he scowled at the younger duck.

"Ye must have some sort of sixth sense about me, nephew!"

Donald snorted. "I just know you too well, you old tightwad! That property belongs to Panchito! You can't have it!"

Scrooge huffed and crossed his own arms. "And I suppose ye're here for help, then. Wha's in for me?"

Donald was prepared for this. "You mean besides the pleasure of getting one over on Glomgold again? If you help us, then I…" Here he paused and grimaced. He was prepared, but that didn't mean he liked it. The things he did for his best friends. "If you help us, then for exactly one month, starting the day after this whole mess is taken care of, I will do whatever you say whenever you say it, no strings attached, and no questions asked unless it's for clarification."

Scrooge's eyes gleamed. "Nae complainin'?"

"No complaining."

"Nae tricks?"

"No tricks."

"Tha's a promise?"

"That's a promise."

Scrooge stood up, hand outstretched. "Nephew, ye have yerself a deal!"

* * *

(1) something Panchito said multiple times in Don Rosa's comics. "Frijole" means "bean", so I guess "holy frijoles" or "holy beans" is supposed to mean something along the lines of "holy mackerel".

(2) This is incredible!

(3) Good afternoon

(4) Mr.

(5) my pistols

* * *

PANCHITO'S NAME

Since "Panchito" is a diminutive of "Francisco", and since having the same name twice has always seemed kind of silly to me, I edited his name a little. "Panchito" is now purely a nickname.

SCROOGE MCDUCK

My Scrooge is a composite character. He's half Barks/Rosa Scrooge and half original DuckTales' Scrooge, with shades of what little I've read of the Italian Scrooge. He's willing to help others as long as it doesn't cost him anything, or if he can make a profit off it, and his better nature will usually make him help even if it does cost him, but he also has moments of sheer ruthlessness that highlight more similarities to Glomgold than he wants to admit.


	4. Ch 3: A Pitstop in Rio

KrissyKat91: Hello everybody! So, for those of you who've been wondering, yes, I'm still alive. Our house sprung several leaks during Harvey, which stirred up a serious case of black mold. It was so rampant throughout the house that it had to be torn down, so we had to move into our church (my dad's the pastor, so we could do that), which doesn't have internet, so I couldn't update anything even if I had anything to update. We ended up staying there till the last few weeks of December, when they finally brought our new mobile home in. I have a walk-in closet for the first time in my life! And a full sized bed with built in drawers! I finally have storage space! _Ahem._ Anyway, life happened after that and I only just picked up my stories again. Sorry for the wait!

New note: I changed José's eye color. No idea why I thought they were blue.

* * *

Cast

(in order of appearance)

Scrooge McDuck - Alan Young

Donald Duck - Tony Anselmo

Panchito Pistoles - Carlos Alazraqui

Launchpad McQuack - Terry McGovern

José Carioca - Eric Bauza

* * *

Ch. 3: A Pitstop in Rio

"Just why 're we're flying' out tae Brazil instead of goin' straight tae Mexico?"

"We have to go pick up a friend in Rio de Janeiro. If we don't, he'll never speak to Panchito and I again."

Scrooge gave him a disbelieving look, then leaned around Donald to peer at the kicked back rooster in the window seat. The three were on the multi-trillion-heir's private jet, streaking towards South America as fast as they legally could—partially because time was of the essence, but mostly because Scrooge wanted to get the whole kerfuffle over with as quickly as possible so he could take advantage of his deal with Donald—and Panchito had settled in for a nap some time before, his sombrero pulled down over his face.

"Where did ye meet this fellow, anyway?"

"Fethry won a trip to Mexico in a raffle he didn't realize he'd entered. Don't ask me how that happened; it's Fethry. Anyway, he didn't want to go for some reason, so he gave the trip to me as a birthday present." Donald shrugged. "Daisy and I had had a bad fight, and I needed to get away for a while, so I jumped on it. I ran into the friend we're going to pick up while I was there, we both ran into Panchito, one thing led to another and we've been best friends ever since." He laughed. "That was the wildest birthday of my life! It was great!"

"I dinnae recall ye goin' tae Mexico recently."

"Oh, this wasn't recent. I took that trip when I was nineteen. Why are you looking at me like that?"

Realizing he was gaping, Scrooge snapped his bill shut but continued to stare at his nephew. To his knowledge, Donald had never managed to hold a friendship with anyone together for more than a few weeks. His relationship with Daisy had only lasted as long as it had because they'd both been too stubborn to see sense. And yet his nephew had been best friends with two other people for almost ten years? Was _still_ best friends with them? And Scrooge was only finding out about this _now?!_

The intercom buzzed, breaking the old Scot out of his thoughts.

 _"Um, Mr. McD?"_ the voice of Launchpad McQuack, Scrooge's personal pilot (the only one willing to accept the chicken scratch he offered as payment), came over the speaker. _"Could you come up here? I think we might have a bit of a problem."_

"Curse me kilts," he grumbled, pushing himself up. "Now what?"

* * *

Donald watched the door to the cockpit slam shut behind his uncle, then slid his gaze over to Panchito. "You can sit up now."

The rooster twitched, then did as he was told, pushing his sombrero back up as he shifted positions. "You knew I was not asleep?"

"You snore like a chainsaw. Of course I knew you weren't asleep."

Panchito looked briefly annoyed, then glanced at the cockpit door. "I do not think your uncle likes me, _amigo."_

"I don't think it's you," the duck replied, standing up so he could stretch. He hated long flights. "I think he's just shocked I've managed to make a friendship last as long as ours has. I, er, don't make friends easily."

The rooster tilted his head. "Really? I do not see why." And there was such honest confusion on his face that Donald couldn't interpret the statement as sarcasm.

"A-anyway," he continued, embarrassed for reasons he couldn't quite put into words, "Uncle Scrooge isn't an easy person to live with, but you'll get used to him, and I'm sure once he gets WAK!"

Donald went tumbling backwards, and Panchito latched onto his seat for dear life, as the plane suddenly took a steep nosedive.

And from the front of the plane, through the thick steel door, came a thunderous howl: _"LAAAUUUNCHPAAAAAAAAAD!"_

* * *

"I think my life just flashed before my eyes," Panchito moaned as he and Donald climbed out of the totaled jet.

"Constant danger's something else you'll get used to if you stick around my family long enough," the duck replied dryly. "Anything broken?"

"I do not think so. What happened?"

Before Donald could answer, a loud crash rang out from inside the plane, and a duck who looked like he had a pelican or two somewhere in his bloodline came sprinting out, dodging flying debris.

"It's not that bad!" Launchpad said, ducking under a well aimed seat cushion. "At least we made it to Rio!"

"Aye," Scrooge growled as he stomped out of the plane, brandishing his cane threateningly, "and lost a $300,000,000 jet doin' it, because _someone_ forgot tae fill up the fuel tank before we left Duckburg! If we dinnae need ye tae get home, Launchpad, ye'd be fired on the spot!"

"Gee, I'm sorry, Mr. McD. I guess it just slipped my mind."

The old Scot took a step forward, honestly looking like he intended to commit physical violence upon Launchpad's person. Then, visibly forcing himself to calm down, he turned to Donald and Panchito.

"The two of ye wait for me at the entrance of the airport. I'll get all this," he nodded towards the airport personnel hurrying to the crash site, "sorted out, then we'll go find this friend of yers."

Allowing himself to be towed away from the plane, Panchito reflected on the events of the last day and a half. If adventure was normal in the Duck/McDuck family…

"What are you grinning at?" Donald asked, eyeing him strangely.

"Nothing, Donal'," he replied, still grinning wildly. "Nothing at all."

If adventure was normal, he might end up asking them to adopt him.

* * *

"Wha' manner of establishment is this?" Scrooge asked, staring up at the flashing neon sign high above them. "And why are we here?"

"This is the nightclub José Carioca, the guy we're looking for, finally earned enough money to build," Donald answered, absently fiddling with the odd looking watch on his right wrist. Scrooge made a mental note to ask him where he got it; it looked too expensively hi-tech for his chronically unemployed nephew. "And it's about time, too. It's been his dream for years. C'mon, let's go."

 _"Uno momento(1),_ Donal'," Panchito said, grabbing the duck by the arm. "I see no sign with José's name. Let us make certain this is the right place."

"Oh, alright. Let's ask that bouncer."

Walking up to the dog standing guard at the door (who looked a little too much like the Beagle Boys for Scrooge's comfort), Panchito rattled off a string of rapid-fire Spanish. The dog blinked down at him, leaned past the rooster to look at a spot on the sidewalk, then sighed and muttered something about "stupid kids". Pulling a smartphone out of his pocket, he tapped the screen a few times and held it up to his ear.

 _"Ei, sou eu. Há gente aqui pedindo José Carioca. Ele está aqui(2)?"_ He listened to whoever was on the other end for a moment, then put his hand over the mic. "What are your names, _senhores(3)?"_

"I'm Donald Duck," Donald responded. "This is Panchito Pistoles and Scrooge McDuck."

The bouncer blinked, brow furrowing like he was trying to remember something, then repeated the names into his phone. A moment later his eyes popped wide open in response to whatever he heard in return.

 _"Claro! Sim, eu entendo(4)!"_ Hanging up, he shoved the phone back into his pocket. _"Senhor_ Carioca is here, and he has given standing orders that you, _Senhor_ Duck and _Senhor_ Pistoles, be let in free of charge at all times." He frowned at Scrooge. _"Me desculpe(5), Senhor_ McDuck, but he left no such orders for you. You will have to pay the cover charge."

 _Pay… the cover… charge? Spend_ ** _more_** _money?!_ Scrooge's vision went red. His muscles tensed. His hands tightened on his cain. And then a steel clamp latched onto the old Scot's shoulder, shocking him out of the building eruption. Even more shocking was that the clamp turned out to be his nephew's hand.

"Look, Uncle Scrooge is with me, okay?" He met the bouncer's gaze evenly. "If José has a problem with it, I'll take care of it."

The bouncer opened his mouth, as if to protest. Then, slowly, he closed it again, apprehension flickering through his eyes.

"A-as you wish, _Senhor."_

Rubbing his shoulder, Scrooge followed Donald and Panchito into the nightclub, distantly wondering what his nephew had done to scare the dog, and when he had developed such a vice-like grip.

* * *

As the three birds entered the building, the bouncer kept a wary eye on the duck in the sailor suit. He'd come across many different people in his job as a bouncer and bodyguard, and he was confident enough in his experience to say that, while not obvious at first glance, that duck was at least in the top ten most dangerous people he'd ever met.

Thinking about that look in his eyes—the tightly controlled violence he'd only ever seen in the eyes of powerful criminals, high level law enforcement and career military men—the bouncer decided he didn't want to know what that duck did for a living, or how _Senhor_ Carioca was involved with someone like that. It was too far above his pay grade.

* * *

"There he is!" Panchito almost shouted over the din of the patrons and music. "On the stage!"

Following the rooster's pointing finger, Donald spied the parrot in question. José was at the tail end of a dance number, if the duck was any judge, feet moving rapidly in time with the crescendoing instruments.

"Ach, why would anyone want tae spend time listening tae such a racket?" Scrooge asked, hands clapped over his ear slits.

Donald cast a scowl over his shoulder, kind of regretting having had to pull out the Avenger's glare in order to get the older duck in with minimal fuss. "Just because bagpipes are all you listen to, doesn't mean everyone has such limited taste." Turning away from his outraged uncle, he stretched up on his toes and waved, trying to get José's attention.

"José! Joe! Over here! Come on, look up!"

It was no use. The cheers and applause were drowning out his voice.

"He can't hear me!"

"He will hear this!" So saying, Panchito leaped up onto a nearby table (thankfully unoccupied), sucked in a deep breath and let out that loud, screeching crow that only a rooster was truly capable of.

The reaction was instantaneous: the music jerked to a halt, whilst José, halfway through a bow, shot straight up, hazel eyes searching the crowd.

"Over here, _amigo!"_ Panchito cried, tossing his sombrero into the air. José's eyes zeroed in on the hat, then snapped down to the bird beneath it.

"Hey, Joe!" Donald yelled, scrabbling up beside the rooster.

A wide grin stretching across his beak, the parrot beckoned them forward before turning to the confused crowd.

 _"Senhoras e senhores(6),"_ he announced as the two worked their way across the room, a bewildered Scrooge trailing behind them, "it seems we have some _muito especial(7)_ guests with us tonight."

Realizing what José wanted them to do, and not at all surprised by it, Donald hissed a quick "Stay here!" to his uncle and followed Panchito onto the stage.

"I would like to introduce our closing act, and _meus melhores amigos(8),_ Panchito Pistoles and Donaldo Duck! Together, we are…"

In a move they'd practiced intensely every chance they got, the three birds whipped their hats off and bowed, unanimously reciting, "The Three Caballeros!"

"And on that note…" José nodded to the conductor, familiar music began to play, and Donald felt a grin spread across his own bill.

 _"We're three caballeros, yes three caballeros. They say we are birds of a featheeeeer…"_

* * *

(1) One moment

(2) Hey, it's me. There are people here asking for José Carioca. Is he here?

(3) sirs

(4) Of course! Yes, I understand!

(5) My apologies

(6) Ladies and gentlemen

(7) very special

(8) my best friends


	5. Ch 4: Late Night Conversation

KrissyKat91: There are story chapters that flow so freely they almost seem to write themselves. And then there are chapters like this one, which fought me tooth and nail for every word, which I had to rewrite several times, and which I'm still not totally satisfied with.

Anyway, before I shut up and let y'all get on with the story, there are I few things I feel the need to say:

1) If anyone's confused about the "cast" thing, Panchito's VA is the guy who voiced him in House of Mouse, José's VA is from Legend of the Three Caballeros and One's VA is from that otherwise really bad PS2 game they made back in 2002. Honestly, giving One a voice was literally the only thing they did right in it.

2) Thus far, the "Goodbye-verse" takes place after PKNA, but before PK2. Just in case you were wondering.

3) THIS IS NOT A SHIPFIC! I'm putting that out there right now. The Cabs are my BroT3, Donald and One are what I've seen referred to as Heterosexual Life-Partners, and anyway the only official pairing I, myself, support is Scrooge/Goldie. That being said, I am quite frankly sick and tired of every nine out of ten Disney Duck stories I find being a shipping story of any kind. Why does every relationship have to be romantic?! Whatever happened to good, wholesome **_friendships?!_**

(inhale, exhale)

Alright, I'm off my soapbox. Go on and read.

* * *

Cast

(in order of appearance)

José Carioca - Eric Bauza

Panchito Pistoles - Carlos Alazraqui

Donald Duck - Tony Anselmo

One - James Horan

* * *

Ch. 4: Late Night Conversation

"Let me see if I understand everything, _amigos,"_ José said slowly, taking a drag of his cigar. The three of them had relocated to a booth in a nearby 24-hour coffee house after José had closed his club for the night, where the other birds had proceeded to fill the parrot in on things. "You discovered oil beneath your _rancho,_ then some jumped up _garimpeiro(1)_ heard about it and committed vandalism and grand theft, among other things, in order to drive you off your own land."

"You have it so far, _amigo."_

"Panchito then spent the better part of a month hiking across the west coast of the United States in order to reach you, Donaldo. You found him passed out in the road, after which you enlisted the aid of your _tio(2),_ the billionheir Scrooge McDuck, because the _garimpeiro_ is his rival."

"Multi-trillionhier, actually."

José puffed on his cigar for a moment, considering the aforementioned Mr. McDuck. The old Scot had vacated their company halfway through the closing process, saying something about tracking down a cheap plane to get them out of the country, though not before casting a flummoxed look between the three birds, a look which the younger duck had met with a challenging stare. It appeared to José—judging by the startled looks on both ducks' faces when the elder had looked away first—that Donald did not often win such seeming clashes of will.

Shaking his head slightly to get his thoughts back on track, the parrot peered across the table at his friends. "Tell me about this Flintheart Glomgold."

"Ah, um," Donald cleared his throat, "he's Uncle Scrooge's rival in, well, pretty much everything, really. If you looked up 'corrupt businessman' in the dictionary, you'd probably find his picture. He's the type of guy who will do anything, absolutely _anything,_ to get his way." He glanced over at the rooster. "Panchito was lucky to get away from him with his feathers attached."

José stiffened. "He has harmed you, _amigo?"_

"Not I," Panchito replied at the same time as Donald's muttered, "Not yet."

"'Not yet'?!" the parrot squawked as the rooster turned to give the duck a wide-eyed look.

Donald shifted uncomfortably. "I'm pretty sure old Flinty has a body count. I don't have concrete proof one way or the other, but there are things he's said and done over the years that have set off alarm bells."

Panchito stared at him. "He tried to have Señor Martinez shot, Donal', not I. I have told you this already."

"Were you riding him at the time?"

"Well, _sí,_ but—"

"Then how do you know you weren't the target?"

If Panchito had an answer to that, José couldn't hear it for the sudden ringing in his ear slits. The very idea that someone would _dare_ try to take one of _his_ friends from him in so permanent a manner! It was—that—he couldn't—!

"*oe! J**, s**p!"

"*na* ou* of i*, _*migo!"_

Something struck him hard enough to knock him out of the booth, shocking him out of the black haze he'd been descending into. Blinking dazedly from his new position on the floor, the parrot looked up at his friends.

Donald was out of his seat, half crouched with his left hand splayed out on the floor and his right arm held out to the side, a position that would let him run or jump or throw himself into a roll— _or attack,_ a tiny voice in the back of José's head whispered—at a moment's notice. Panchito, on the other hand, was half on top of the table, fist still extended from punching José in the beak.

"Back with us, Joe?" Donald asked, standing carefully.

Slowly pushing himself up, José took in the scattered chairs and tables, the still flickering lights and the wide-eyed barista peeking out from behind the counter, and swallowed hard.

* * *

Sitting on José's roof, Donald thought back over the day while absently doing some star charting exercises.

After making a tactical retreat from the coffee house, the Caballeros had met up with Scrooge at the airport, only to find that the soonest they could leave Rio was the following afternoon. In light of that, José had offered his apartment for the night. So it was that Scrooge and Launchpad took the guest room and its bunkbed, Panchito took the pull-out under José's own bed, and Donald got the couch.

So why was he stargazing? Well, as an unfortunate side effect of spending over a year beating up criminals, aliens and various other ne'er-do-wells all night, Donald had more-or-less trained himself into being nocturnal; his body clock insisted that daylight was the time for sleep, even though his brain knew better. Being on a lumpy couch in an unfamiliar environment only made sleep even more impossible.

Pulling his thoughts away from the tangent they'd run off on, Donald straightened up, checked his surroundings for eavesdroppers, then tapped the "face" of the "watch" on his right wrist.

"You there, One?" he asked softly.

 _"Always, partner,"_ the AI replied, the "face" disappearing to reveal the green, orb shaped communications relay of the currently-watch-shaped X-Transformer. Thank goodness Everett Ducklair's habitual breaking of the laws of physics resulted in the shield having frankly insane metamorphic capabilities, otherwise he'd never have been able to sneak it past Scrooge's eagle-eye.

"Did everything check out?" he asked as the orb projected his partner's image.

 _"Indeed. All is as the rooster said. This Glomgold has no legal leg to stand on."_

"Not that that's ever stopped him," Donald grumbled, dragging his free hand down his face. "What about that other thing I asked you to do?"

 _"You do realize Glomgold has state-of-the-art security systems, correct? Even military hackers couldn't so much as touch them without some nasty consequences."_

"So you had no problems?"

 _"What do you take me for? Of course I had no problems. It was, as they say, a walk in the park, provided the park in question is built atop a burial ground."_

"Say again?"

 _"You were correct when you said you thought he had a body count. The man is a psychopath. He keeps highly detailed records of everyone he's had killed over the years. I've prepared date packets divided by location; say the word and they'll be sent to every major law enforcement agency on the planet."_

"…Not yet," Donald said slowly. "If he thinks he's been found out, he may get desperate. Uncle Scrooge and I can handle him, but I can't risk Joe or Panchito getting hurt."

One humphed. _"I suppose not. On another note, what was that power surge I picked up earlier? I've never encountered anything like it."_

Donald thought back to that moment in the coffee house—when hazel eyes had blazed bloody crimson and waves of faintly black tinted energy had erupted off the parrot; when that energy had lashed out at the furniture, the lights, and even the guy at the register (but not at them; _never_ at them)—and he cringed. "That was Joe. I think I may have made a mistake telling him that Glomgold tried to kill Panchito."

 _"Is the parrot some sort of extraterrestrial?"_

"Nope. Black mage."

 _"What."_

"Well, sort of. At least that's what I call him, since his magic acts so much like the magic in fantasy games."

 _"I-that-Donald, there is no such thing as magic."_

"Sure there is." The duck shrugged. "It just keeps itself well hidden. I've told you that more than once."

 _"We're not having this argument again. Back to the matter at hand. I think you should leave the parrot and the rooster behind and take care of things yourself. They will only be liabilities."_

"They have names, One. Use them. Even if I did want to leave them behind—which I don't, by the way; I'd be risking the longest lasting friendships I've ever had—I can't just take off. There's no way I'd be able to give Uncle Scrooge a believable excuse."

 _"You would think of something!"_ the AI nearly snapped, a scowl on his holographic face.

"Okay, seriously!" Donald half shouted before he could stop himself. Freezing, he listened carefully. When he was sure he hadn't woken anyone, he glared at his partner. "What's up with you?! You've been acting weird ever since I brought Panchito to the Tower! If I didn't know better I'd swear you were—!" His bill shut with a _clack!_ as realization washed over him. "Oh. Oh my. You're jealous."

The hologram did a fair approximation of rearing back in affront. _"I beg your pardon?! I am an Artificial Intelligence! I do not get jealous!"_

"Uh huh, sure. One, you have nothing to be jealous over. Yes, Joe and Panchito are my best friends, and there's nothing I wouldn't do for them, but you are my _partner._ You know things about me that I've never told _anyone,_ and I'm not even talking about the whole hero thing. I-I know I've never said it, and I probably don't show it like I should, but I couldn't do any of this without you, and if anything happened to you, I-well, I don't know what I'd do but it would probably be extremely painful for whoever hurt you."

Donald felt like his whole head was about to spontaneously combust by the time he was done with his impromptu speech. He was not at all used to baring himself like that, and the way One was gaping at him was not helping.

The AI worked his bill soundlessly for a moment (and something inside Donald cackled at that; he'd actually rendered him speechless) before whipping around with what sounded remarkably like the sharp clearing of a throat.

 _"Well,"_ he made that sound again, _"well, I suppose we should come up with a plan, then."_

And it was probably Donald's imagination, but for a split second he could have sworn he saw something very much like tears in his partner's eyes.

* * *

(1) prospector. Glomgold started out as a diamond miner, if I recall correctly, so it works.

(2) uncle

* * *

THE ASTERISKS

The asterisks represent José momentary inability to hear his friends clearly. Their actual words were as follows:

"Joe! Joe, stop!"

"Snap out of it, _amigo!"_

JOSÉ'S MAGIC

My José has Black Magic—the use of which can be identified by glowing red eyes—à la fantasy RPGs, meaning it leans more towards elemental attacks and status effects than anything really nasty. He's self taught—the few tricks he knows are things he's worked out through trail-and-error—and not particularly inclined to take formal lessons. He has enough raw power, however, that if he _were_ properly trained he could probably go toe-to-toe with Magica de Spell at her strongest and stand a more than fair chance of coming out on top. But José's a showman before he's anything else, so the most his magic gets deliberately used for is flashy light shows. That being said, he's also viciously protective of anyone he considers _his_ , whether that be family or friends or what-have-you, and if you're stupid enough to harm _his_ where he can see it, _you will_ ** _regret_** _it._

JOSÉ'S HOME

I'm well aware that the Brazilian comics have him living in a normal-if-rundown house in a normal-if-rundown neighborhood. My José _really_ isn't the suburban type, so he has an apartment. Directly above his nightclub, as it happens.

DONALD'S SLEEPING PROBLEMS

My Donald has a mild case of narcolepsy, and that's why he has such a hard time staying awake. No one realized this, however—not even Ludwig, who, as a psychiatrist, really ought to have recognized the symptoms—and simply thought him lazy. Donald himself did not know he was narcoleptic until after he'd set up shop in Ducklair Tower. One discovered it after insisting on doing an in-depth medical scan so there'd be a baseline to work with should anything happen to him. The Tower actually had something that helped him get control of it, but by that point Donald was so used to staying up all night anyway that nothing really changed.


End file.
